


Lice and Tomorrows

by Chimerari



Category: Magic Mike (2012)
Genre: Backstory, Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen, M/M, Open Marriage, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2018-01-01 15:50:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chimerari/pseuds/Chimerari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ken didn't choose the stripper life. The stripper life came in, body-rolling, wearing a killer smile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lice and Tomorrows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [withthepilot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthepilot/gifts).



> written for the promot: 'Mike and Ken have unfinished business post-movie—that is to say, Ken has a problem with Mike just walking away from everything they have'  
> If anyone is interested, here is the song I had on loop while writing. [Bloodstream.mp3](http://www.4shared.com/mp3/NO6kh_P0/Bloodstream.html)

They met when he was still Nathaniel, and Mike was pretty damn magical already, judging by the way the guy with a receding hairline cooed over him.

All in all, he looked like he should be on a marine recruitment poster with his tank top and clean-shaven face, corn-fed wholesomeness practically oozing out of his ears.

Dallas (the name came back to him now) did a complicated fist bump slash shoulder slap with Tank Top, turning back to fix Nathaniel with a Colgate grin.

‘Mike, Nate. Nate, Mike.’

He always hated it when people shortened his name without so much a by-your-leave: the one good thing his parents picked out for him.

Mike grasped the proffered hand and pulled him into an enthusiastic hug. ‘Nate? ‘s that short for Nathan?’

‘Nathaniel, actually.’

‘Daym...’ Mike cut a withering look in Dallas’ direction, ‘…where did you find this one, fresher’s fair?’

Nathaniel flushed, wondering if Mike was a broke student too or if he was a special case of transparency. Mike guffawed. ‘Aw man, you can’t do that.’

‘Do what?’

‘The wolves will gobble you right up.’

He swallowed; last night had been a blur after the fifth shot. And frankly, Opium wasn’t a place for conversations.

‘Eh, what exactly am I required to do here?’

But Dallas was already turning to go, always scenting after a new kill. ‘Mike will show you the ropes.’ A parting pat on the back, way lower than Nathaniel was comfortable with. ‘Not that you need it. Your money-maker is all up here.’

He glanced over to Mike, feeling his eyes going helplessly wider by the second. Mike smoothed a palm over his face, huffing a little.

 

 

‘So, what should I call you?’

‘…here I thought Nathaniel was memorable, if nothing else.’

‘No no, trust me, you don’t want to start bodyrolling every time someone hollers your name.’

‘…’

‘Oops, sorry, baby steps, got ya. You cool with Ken?’

‘Ken?’ He wrinkled his nose. Mike shrugged. ‘You look like a Ken.’

Ken it was then, no skin off his back.

 

 

He honestly didn’t make the link until a couple days later, when this, giant, goosed him good and proper in lieu of introduction.

‘It’s got a dick and everything! Kid-friendly my ass.’

By then Ken has stuck, even in his own head.

 

 

The first night he ended up just serving drinks, working the crowd. Watch and learn, as Mike put it. It was easy, fun even, he was a natural flirt. And when he couldn’t get the smile to reach his eyes anymore, he showed his teeth and made the dimples pop.

He knew he looked okay, body-wise. Nothing like Richie, whose biceps were bigger than his head. Or Tarzan (‘my real name? none of your fucking business.’), who’s got the animal magnetism thing going for him. Or Mike.

Mike, man, Mike was a whole nother ballgame.

Ken would like to think of himself as straight but not narrow. Every one of them has worked hard for those abs and why shouldn’t he appreciate the effort?

There was looking, then there was _cannot tear his eyes away even if his fiancé kicked the doors in right this second_.

It was that torso rippling thing. He’d defy anyone to watch that and **not** imagine Mike doing that move on them, and god, in them.

Mike ducked through the curtains, saw the look on his face, and beamed from ear to ear.

‘Patience, young Padawan. You’ll get there some day.’

 

 

To be honest, his experience with dancing ranged from horizontal grinding on rave nights to two-step shuffle holding his niece’s tiny hands. And that one time his school decided to re-enact Pulp Fiction, which you can’t get him to talk about, not even under threat of death.

So when Mike, puffy eyed and a pillow crease across his cheek, yawned around a mouthful of breakfast, he had to do a double take.

‘My what?’

What and how seemed to be his favourite words these days.

Instead of answering, Mike just pressed play. Heavy bass thumped through the floor to his wobbly knees.

‘Your moves, shaking your groove, whatever you wanna call it.’

He was pretty sure his motor function just spasmed and died on the spot.

Three bars in, Mike was curled up over a chair, arms across his middle, half of the cereal spilled down his front.

‘Please, no more, man,’ he wheezed, ‘no more.’

When he was done wiping tears from his eyes, Mike switched the stereo off and parked himself in front of the mirror. Disguising the fading snicker as hiccups.

‘First thing first, widen the base; bend your knees a little.’

Ken did that, then immediately winced at his reflection. Mike was completely at ease, he just looked like he had a beer gut.

‘Be loose with it.’ Miked walked around to stand behind him, pulling and adjusting until he was satisfied. ‘Don’t worry about how it looks just yet.’

After what felt like hours of stepping and pelvic thrusting (what Mike called ‘the message’), Mike announced that he was ready for group practice tomorrow.

Ken chocked on his water. ‘Group practice?’

‘Monday was a slow night, come weekend, one or two solos ain’t gonna cut it.’

Sensing the panic, Mike squeezed his shoulders. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll put you at the back. Remember, if everything fails, just start taking your clothes off.’

 

 

His debut was a hair’s breadth away from a complete disaster, considering he was flailing around in his thong while everyone else still had their tearaway pants on. Dallas looked like he was teetering on the edge of an aneurysm.

 

 

The guys were cool. Cagey about their personal life, sure, but so was he. Stone, glass house, etcetera. There was something to be said about the deep, spiritual bond between people who’ve seen each other waxing their thighs and talcing up before squeezing into latex.

They looked out for him, kept the worst of the grabby costumers away, and passed on their hard-earned wisdom: how to dot kohl between his lashes without looking like he was wearing eyeliner, how to get rid of fake tan on sheets, jerking off before getting on stage because the costumes covered nothing, **nothing**.

 

 

He married Gina in the fall. Mum was sobbing openly, clutching at dad’s elbow. His in-laws were dabbing at their eyes.

And Gina, Gina was incandescent from her garlanded head to her toes; painted electric blue beneath white chiffon. It was like prom night all over again, clammy palms and jelly legged. Her trembling fingers fit into his hands just so.

This was what he wanted, this was who he wanted. A thousand drowsy mornings and nights bathed in sweat and here they were, here they were.

Warm sand lurched beneath his feet when their lips met, the best kind of free fall.

 

 

One of the main dancers, Cowboy Casanova disappeared came January. Owing some bad people money, or so Dallas said. The important thing was:

‘You, are dancing solo by the end of the week, or I’m firing both of you.’

It was mostly an empty threat, as far as Mike was concerned. He had to skip lectures just to make it to the extra rehearsal.

Mike talked him through the routine first. The beginning and end sounded easy enough: bursting out of a box dressed as a Ken doll, then went back in there sans most of his clothes. A sprinkle of robotic moves to liven things up, which Mike snorted that even the whitest whiteman could manage. (‘What are you then?’ ‘Exotic honey beige, duh.’)

‘Can you promise me no glitter? And ixnay on lipstick.’ He’d seen what atrocity his sisters subjected their collection to.

‘Sorry, can’t.’

The middle part though. He was sure Mike just wanted him to brain himself on stage.

‘I find it easier to have a focus point, a customer, a pole, whatever, then just—’ Mike’s bodyrolls were like, a sheer force of nature. Muscles shifting from chest to navel in one liquid shiver.

After the third try, he felt as if his hips were about to pop.

‘No no no don’t force it.’ Mike heaved a sigh, and Ken all but shrivelled up inside.

‘Come here,’ Mike grunted. When Ken failed to comply, he yanked him close, manoeuvring them both so they stood back to chest.

‘What are you---’ he would deny to his dying day that the question ended on a squeak. Mike slung an arm across his chest, coaxing.

‘Lean back.’

If anything, he stood even straighter, painfully aware of the thirty odd pounds Mike had on him, the breadth of those shoulders enfolding his whole frame. Mike’s amused huff ruffled the hair at his nape. ‘Relax, will you?’

He could do this, he could totally do this. Personal space was for the weak.

Apparently Mike wasn’t satisfied until Ken was resting most of his weight on him, dead limbs and all. Too mortified to look into the mirror, he certainly felt like some seaweed that got stuck on Venus when she rose out of the waves.

The iron band over his chest let go once Mike was convinced he’d stay put. Relief, however, was short-lived: before he knew it, hands were curving around his hips, tugging insistently so that they were aligned from shoulder to groin.

Ken let out a shaky breath; sweat was beading his temples, Mike a line of unrelenting heat moulding along his back. 

‘Stop fighting me—’ a hint of frustration creeping in, ‘—Jesus, I’m not trying to molest you.’

Given the position they were in, the hilarity was lost on no one.

‘Try to feel it, okay? I suck at explaining.’ Mike flattened a hand over his ribs, chest lifting, pushing forward then collapsing, drawing Ken in with him.

‘Don’t sweat it.’ Mike’s voice droned through two layers of clothing. ‘Soon you’ll doing it like breathing.’

Yeah right

Ken instinctively wanted to tense up when the motion flowed further down. And Mike, damn his spidery senses, tightened the grip.

‘Don’t. It’s harder to isolate below the waist as it is.’

Ken bit back a nervous laugh. ‘You’d think every guy over the age of fifteen would’ve had some practice already.’

‘Shut it smartass.’

The fingers splayed over his belly pressed down and in, forcing Ken to follow suit, spine lengthening and his hips dipped back.

A low whistle sounded from the other side of the room. Ken didn’t jump. He **didn’t**.

‘That’s a niiice visual.’ Richie tilted his head, frankly appraising. Ken flipped him the bird as best as he could, considering he was pinned against a freaking wall of muscle.

Mike started humming ‘gettin' down with 3P’, Richie, unfazed as ever, stepped close and put one huge paw over the top of Ken’s thigh. Ken thumped his forehead against Richie’s chest, probably gave himself a concussion in the process.

‘Off, you stink.’

Richie did smell ripe with sweat and motor oil, which was probably why he proceeded to rub his armpits all over them.

 

 

Dallas came to personally congratulate Ken on his first solo outing, eyes crinkling charmingly.

‘How does it feel to be a real boy at last, Pinocchio?’

 Fan-fucking-tastic, if he was honest. The stack of greens sprung free of his G-string with a birdsong. Mike gathered him up with a loud sniffle. ‘Nobody puts baby in the corner no more.’ Which led to a whole new round of bum pinching and chest grabbing.

Gina showed up half way through the impromptu celebration, bright eyed when she melted into his arms, five foot nothing of soft warmth.

There was a beat of stunned silence when he introduced her as his wife, the guys having an entire conversation with their eyebrows. Their welcome tentative, as was the case when they were in the company of women who didn’t pay for their presence.

Then Gina asked point blank if she got any discount at Xquisite. Mike jerked his chin towards Ken. ‘What for? You already have one of our finest.’

‘Variety is the spice of life.’ Gina put on her best Disney villain voice, quirked an eyebrow.

Everyone hooted and laughed, the weird tension snapped with an almost audible ping. By the end of the night Gina had kissed Tarzan senseless, and they all got free shots from a very appreciative barman.

He didn’t break out any of his new moves. They danced like they used to, stationary swaying to a soundtrack which was not designed for that at all, soaking up the closeness. Her hair smelt of coconut, of home.

Mike disappeared hours ago with Jo, a dopey grin on his face.

It was a great night.

 

 

‘Not falling back on your homework, are you?’

Ken shook his head, suddenly defensive.

‘Man, I really don’t know how you do it.’ Mike chucked the sweaty towel into the laundry basket.

Truth was, he was dancing, three, four times a week. Every times Dallas called him in for ‘just a couple hours’, he almost always said yes. It was good money, they needed a new sofa in the flat. He might not have turned up for most lectures, too beat during the day, but he was still handing in essays on time. Before the month was over he’d have saved up enough for a proper holiday, and something nice for his parents. What was there to complain?

‘Don’t take your eyes off the price, kiddo.’

‘Of course not, don’t be dumb.’

If he wasn’t fixing his hair in the mirror, he’d have missed Mike’s quick flinch. Immediately Ken felt like he’d swallowed a fly. Mike was not dumb, far from that. He might not have been book smart, but he’s got a good head for numbers and a deft hand when it came to busted electricals.

They played FIFA before the door opened, and he let Mike win three times in a row. Mike fist pumped like a little boy, which was as good an acceptance of apology as any.

But he never mentioned college again in front of Ken.

 

 

Ever since Gina’s appearance, his marital relationship became the go-to topic backstage.

‘Okay, so do you go home like, honey, I’ve stuck my dick somewhere else, your move?’

Ken rubbed his temples. ‘We don’t keep a tally or anything, jeez, it’s not about numbers.’

‘Again, explain.’

‘We have an understanding, ‘s all.’ He looked at the eagerly upturned faces, a bunch of gossiping crows. ‘We don’t sneak behind the other’s back, and never the same person more than twice.’

Richie tutted. ‘You lucky bastard.’

‘That I am, my friend, that I am.’

It wasn’t for everybody, sure, but it was working for them. That was what mattered.

Plus, reunion sex was the best sex.

 

 

Having been the rookie of the group for so long, it was disconcerting, to say the least, to witness someone else being the deer in headlights, an out of body experience of sorts.  

Adam was an alright kid. Eager to please, and looked at Mike like he’d found a unicorn.

God, had he been that starry eyed too? Ken shuddered, hoping against hope that he’d possessed a tad more subtlety.

Mike, the mother hen that he was, immediately took Adam under his wing. They all did, in a way. Laughed at Adam’s obvious wonder and poked fun at the string of questions, giving more and more outrageous answers.

He stumbled upon Mike in his Jedi master mode, manhandling a flustered Adam like he was warm taffy to be stretched and smoothed into a new shape. It was so reminiscent of another time and another place, he entertained the thought of sidling up to them, a little groping for good measure. Imagining the horrified look on Adam’s face and Mike’s eye roll. After all, aggressive gay chicken was the inevitable pastime for a bunch of guys who wandered around mostly naked and high.

He closed the door quietly behind him. It wasn’t that funny a joke anyway.

 

 

Ken fell asleep during his graduation ceremony. Gina had to nudge him awake when his name was called.

‘Baby, you’re working yourself too hard.’ She cupped a palm around his jaw, smoothing her thumb over the dark circles he knew were there.

‘I’m fine.’ He kissed her softly. Soon he’d have to face the unflattering reality that was job hunting; resume, interviews, the whole lot. But for now, he was bringing home a small fortune every week. They’ve got a decent house in a nice neighbourhood. He was in no hurry to join the masses.

 

 

He’d done a few house parties. They generally weren’t his favourite thing. Within the walls of Xquisite, the customers might toe the line from time to time but no one wanted to be escorted out by security.

On someone else’s turf, all bets were off.

Although he might have started taking commercial classes twice a week, he was hardly a dancer. Granted, most of them couldn’t care less if he had two left feet, as long as he’s got a decent set of oiled abs.

Mike talked him into it.

‘Just follow my lead, what could go wrong?’

He supposed if worst came to worst, Mike could always be trusted to draw the attention away.  

The setup was laughably clichéd. What was it with housewives and their fascination with cops? Freud would have a field day with their target audience.

They did the posturing, the patented flashing of the badge, fixing stern glares at the giggling ladies over the top of their aviator shades.

It was all smooth sailing until the birthday girl piped up,

‘Hey, tell you what, let’s change things up a bit.’

Uh oh

‘Who doesn’t love a bit of man on man action, am I right?’

Her guests answered with a chorus of hell yeses. Ken was on the edge of blurting out something unsavoury, are you fucking serious, I’m not---

Whatever half-formed protest screeched to a halt. All rational thought exited the building as Mike whirled around, one corner of his mouth twitched.

‘Well well well, what have we got here?’

It was his Magic Mike voice, just enough teasing behind the bravado to make the nervous ones go pliant in their seats.

And now, apparently it worked for him, too. Not dissimilar to how bunnies would go still under a wolf’s gaze.

Mike circled him, unhurried, eyes raking up and down his body. And Ken had the sudden desire to cover up, arms in front his bare chest like the goddamn vestal virgin. 

You’re not some wet behind the ears Kid, he kicked himself mentally, you’ve been doing this for years.

All it took was his momentary distraction. The sudden weight at his throat shocked him into motion, a graceless stumble and his back hit the wall, Mike not letting up a millimetre. The baton cutting off his air slightly, just enough to make him fuzzy brained and dry mouthed.

‘Hands where I can see them.’

His arms shot up, one hand gripping the other wrist above his head without any conscious decision.

It was an act, a fucking act, don’t think dontthinkdontthink---

Mike sneered, honest to god sneered, like he was already picturing Ken tied up and helpless, all Mike’s.

‘Good boy.’

Normally he’d bristle under the caressing tone; not some wide-eyed, giggly schoolgirl you could pull this on. Shove that alpha male bullshit where the sun don’t shine.

He swallowed against the pressure, transfixed. 

The plastic slid lower, glancing his nipple almost definitely by accident. And Ken fought the urge to arch off the wall.

Then thought, why fight? This was what the costumers were paying for, wasn’t it? A parody of desire.

He couldn’t see Mike’s eyes, couldn’t read into the miniscule pause, didn’t want to.

A fist slammed into the wall next to his head, biceps bulging enticingly for the audience’s benefit. Mike’s shiny boot slid along the inside of his calf, miming a pat down before kicking his legs further apart, slotting his body into the v of Ken’s thighs. Hips sashaying to some music only he could hear.

Magic Mike, indeed.

Something bubbled in his veins, hot and cold. Suddenly he didn’t want Mike calling the shots, reining him in like always, thus far and no further.

He gripped Mike’s nape, hooked an ankle around his knee and spun them around. Listened with no small amount of pleasure for the hitch in Mike’s breathing, the dull thud of their combined weight hitting concrete.

Everything was pixelating. The red of Mike’s mouth a fading bruise, the kind that invited curious fingers, or teeth.

 _Easier when you have a focus point._ A voice echoed in his head, placating. The absurdity almost made him laugh.

 Chin, chest, belly, groin, a domino of bones and sinew, ghosting closer than dancing out of reach again. The stunned new light in Mike’s pupils made him bare his teeth.

\--look at me, look at me, don’t you dare look away. I am what **you** made me---

 

 

Mike caught up with him once they cleared the house, pockets fat with cash.

‘Hey, hey, we okay?’

He didn’t want an olive branch. He wanted away, he wanted a hot shower, the safety of their house, the sleepy warmth of Gina.

‘Peachy.’

 

 

Something was brewing beneath the surface with Mike, and he’d bet his left nut that Adam had a part in it. Plus, no one wanted to touch the sudden coziness between Adam and Tito with a ten feet pole.

He tried to broach the subject, and got nothing but a blank smile for his trouble.

Fine, if Mike wanted to play the lone hero, who was he to say no? There were other things on his mind anyway.

He’d stopped pretending to circle job ads a while back. The thought of starting from the bottom of the pile again stomach-turning. His parents asked questions he had no answer to, so he found excuses not to pick up the phone, calling back when he was sure no one would be in the house.

Gina worked odd jobs in between touring with the theatre company. Away for months at a time and coming back with new freckles across the bridge of her nose, or drunkenly trimmed bangs. He listened to her ranting about stingy directors, gruelling schedules, and that one stalker who ruined Venice for her.

‘I’m serious. Hush, listen to this--- _your taste like liquid velvet_. I mean, who even says that?’

He laughed so hard he dropped the receiver. ‘Golden. And what did you say?’

‘ _Sweetheart, liquid velvet is just a mouthful of fluff_.’

They’d never been inseparable, not their style. The road was in Gina’s blood; he suffered a chronic case of fickle heart: changed major three times in as many months, hopping through a string of societies and groups.

But times like this, longing came at him like a knife, pointy end first, achy all the way down.

 

 

It was a swell party: free flowing drinks, plenty of weed, and the sort of crowd he’s come to love—no one asked what anyone did for a living, or where they’d come from.

Gina was right here in the thick of writhing bodies with him, hair darkened by sweat. The gazillion bangles on her tanned wrist clunked with their every move. Thin cotton sticking across her collar bones, the hollows beneath her breasts. Her heart a second rhythm in his chest.

They’ve shared a handful of pills earlier, something small and white, and there were champagne bubbles in his head, twirling and twirling until they burst into stardust. The music crawled over his skin into Gina’s then back, a quicksilver loop that left him gasping.

Then Gina was slipping away, laughing. He followed her blindly, mind leaping and chasing after every fleeting thought.

Arms snaked around Gina, Ken had to look down to check they were not his. Nope, definitely not, his were still slung around her neck, and now sliding up into hair too short to grip, like Mike’s.

Huh?

He blinked twice to clear the bright spots in his vision. Mike’s face swam into view, grinning, rubbing his chin across the top of Gina’s tousled head to make her yelp and giggle.

Ken squinted: there was a newness to Mike. But he was too out of it to examine the whys and hows.

They fit together, somehow, three sets of limbs haphazardly thrown around each other. He nosed up behind Gina’s ear, one hand splayed over Mike’s hip---palm against worn denim and thumb resting on sweaty curve of bone.

He’s got his beautiful wife, and Mike here, looking happy and relaxed for the first time in a long time. The taste of Gina’s mouth impossibly familiar, yet foreign and holy, laced with the bitter tang of beer.

They shifted as one; hadn’t done this for a while but falling in sync easily---Gina tugging and he swaying forward---then he was licking the sweat off Mike’s top lip.

For one heady moment Mike kissed back in greedy gulps, full commitment, taking no prisoners. Fingers gripping the hem of his shirt, twisting and lifting to get to skin…

When he drew back for air, panting, Mike stood frozen, eyes huge. He reached out, meaning stay, stay, it’s okay, but Mike was already gone.

Gina pouted, mouthed what Ken imagined to be his loss. He shook his head, gesturing for her to wait here.

It was easy to spot Mike, tall back disappearing down the alley.

‘Mike!’ his voice sounded wrong, sandpaper raw.

The figure stopped, didn’t turn around. He launched into a forward stagger, yanking on Mike’s arm.

‘What the fuck?’ Ken threw his arms out, reaching wide to gather close the double dose of indignation, his and Gina’s.

‘Sorry, I, sorry.’ He’d never seen Mike so rattled, shoulders crawling up to his ears.  

‘Hey, no one’s putting a gun to your head.’

‘I know, just,’ Mike studied his sneakers. ‘I can’t.’

‘Could have fooled me.’

Mike paled. ‘I’m seeing someone. I can’t, I’m not you.’

He didn’t remember much. When the haze cleared, pain was blooming across his knuckles, and Mike licked at the oozing cut on his lip, still looking down.

Ken didn’t hang around to hear what else Mike had to say.

 

 

Deep down, he’d known Mike was getting out: partied less, squirrelling his money away. He’d expected an epic send-off, a montage of Mike’s greatest hits, back slaps all around, see you when I see you.

He’d probably have been okay with that.

The last thing he envisioned was to come in on day and find all of Mike’s stuff gone, and everyone else acted as if it was business as usual.

Dallas was extraordinarily unhelpful. ‘It’s a free country, man.’

He realized that he knew all about Mike’s pre-show ritual, his preferred brand of hair gel, but he wouldn’t even have known Mike’s last name if he hadn’t glanced at his driver’s licence.

Good thing he’d memorized Mike’s address, too.

 

 

There was a van parked in front of the place, men in overalls milling around, carrying boxes out.

He took the stairs two at a time.

Mike glanced up at the ruckus. He still looked somewhat guilty around the eyes, but he managed a wave. ‘I’d offer you a beer but I’m out myself.’

Ken took in the shattered glass lying underfoot, the overturned furniture with rising dread. ‘What the hell happened?’

Mike shrugged. ‘Not my concern. Not anymore.’

Seeing Ken’s disbelief, Mike scratched at the stubble along his chin. ‘Look, I’m done here. So this is me, making a fresh start.’

‘Miami is a fresh start.’

‘Not for me.’

He wanted to say three years, three years of covering each other’s asses, not even a goodbye? He wanted to say you gonna put on a suit, play the respectable citizen?

Most of all he wanted to say we’re just starting to, don’t, just don’t.

‘So what now?’

‘Now?’ Mike looked sheepish. ‘Now I’m staying with Brooke for a bit, then we’ll figure something out.’

He noted the use of _we_ with a sinking sense of finality.

‘Xquisite won’t make it without you.’

This was it; this was the last card up his sleeve, nothing more to give. He had little claim on Magic Mike, much less this Mike, Michael Lane.

‘Adam’s filling in the gap just fine.’ Mike’s smile was a little brittle, and the way he said Adam’s name gave Ken pause.

‘He’s not you.’

‘He will be.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’ Ken ran a hand through his hair, trying to shake the jumble of thoughts free. Dallas might have provided a roof over their heads, but Mike was the one they all gravitated towards, a totem of stripperdom, in a fucked up way.

Mike nodded like he understood, at least part of it. ‘You’re going, then?’

He shrugged. He’s got a life here, collected favourite cafes and scenic routes for walks, friends he’s stayed in touch with. But he could leave, if he wanted; bundling up the souvenirs and Gina would meet him half way. 

‘One word of advice? Get out early. You don’t want to be chucked out on the rubbish heap.’

‘Maybe I don’t.’ the retort sounded half-hearted even to his own ears. ‘Maybe one day I’d have my own place, my own dancers.’

‘You could,’ Mike agreed easily. He didn’t move a muscle, but the sudden distance that sprung up between them was dizzying.

‘Come and visit, at least.’

Mike’s head whipped around at that, eyes narrowing. Whatever hidden meaning he was trying to decode, Ken let him look.

‘Perhaps not yet.’ Mike leaned back against the wall, pulse jumping at the base of his throat. ‘A few things to sort out first, beside---’

Ken waited.

‘S hard, you know. I think I need to stay away from,’ Mike waved at thin air, ‘everything for a while.’

Yeah, he understood all too well: the siren pull of it, blink and you’re already knee deep in this life.

His words spent, Ken straightened up, dusting some non-existent dirt off his knees.

‘Well, good luck with everything.’

Mike surged up as well, enveloping Ken in one of his patented hugs. ‘Look after yourself. And say hi to Gina for me.’

When he stepped back, Mike was beaming, eyes bulletproof; the look of a man setting his bridges on fire.

 

 

There was an all-night diner not far from Xquisite, checked table cloths and wholesale donuts. A good place to people watch, Ken’d always thought. Drunken students washed in and out at all hours, riding on tides of slurred laughter.

He briefly wondered what he looked like to them: shivering slightly in a thin jacket, wincing at a muffin because he’s got glitter in places he didn’t have name for. Wondered if any of them would approach him with an offer more banal than the one Dallas had thrown over his shoulder, a lifetime ago, Christ.

He took another chunk out of the greasy muffin, started rolling it into small beads.

At least part of him would always want it, that much he was certain of; living in the here and now, no thoughts further than the week ahead. He also knew how harrowing it was, to spend his best years doing something he might be good at, but couldn’t bring himself to care. He thought about Gina, that one time they fought, her voice soft and shattering:

_Can you honestly say you look forward to work every morning?_

He’d yelled yes then, loud enough to drown out his own thoughts. Gina had given him a long look and walked away.

When they fought they fought ugly, words sharpened by years of familiarity.

Some people remembered the sterile white of a dentist’s office when they were six, lured there by promises of ice cream. Some people remembered the linty sock smell of their first car. Ken thought he’d probably remember the synthetic sweetness of fake blueberry, coating the back of his throat when he picked up the phone.

 ‘Hey.’

‘Hey baby,’ he rasped.

‘Where are you?’ Gina sounded puzzled, a hint of worry, the famous female intuition. ‘Tate?’

She was the only one who called him Tate, and that one word gripped him, beckoning him forward even though at times all he wanted was to turn tail and run.

‘Yeah. Yeah I’m still here,’ he breathed, slow and steadying. Outside, the sky began to lighten to the color of pruned fingertips.

‘How do you feel about a holiday, Gee?’  

**Author's Note:**

> First thing first, apologies to my recipient, who wanted more post-movie than pre. And I couldn't really do post-movie, in which I don't envision a happy reunion, without exploding with backstories first XD I hope I've provided adequate level of sexual tension at least.  
> Many, many thanks to my wonderful beta lionessvalenti, who waded through punctuation hell to provide critic;P  
> In the film Ken's wife was glossed over as a ohh kinky moment and I was not comfortable with that. I wanted the 'creepy wife sharing' to be a fully consensual, fully informed decision, and stemming from a loving, trusting relationship. In a way, I suppose you could say Gina is an OFC. You wouldn't believe the amount of unnecessary research I put into 'beach wedding dress'  
> I had tremendous fun with this, thank you for the inpiring prompt.  
> Title came from 'Tropic of Cancer': 'She crowned him with a whiksy bottle and her tongue was full of lice and tomorrows'  
> [Tumblr me folks](http://rosengris.tumblr.com/)


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